


In Othello

by Anonymous



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Ranboo plays board games with himself like a loser, Ranboo-centric (Video Blogging RPF), This is an outline of a comic I'm making- I think about the contrasting values., its not angsty-its more apathic if anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29280234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ranboo just wanted a simple board game, and when has anything gone wrong for him?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 67
Collections: Anonymous





	In Othello

The way that the game starts was merely an accident. It was a gift, and as all things it would be rude to leave it to waste in his shed, and even then. If it was the passing words Ranboo overhears about board games like chess helping people find peace of mind, he wouldn’t acknowledge it. A method to strengthen the mind, almost something from a magazine’s half-funded study (or a certain someone’s experiments). 

Even then, he only gets as far as setting it up and figuring it out as far to do the initial move before he gets distracted by other more pressing things, leaving the board abandoned within the walls of his shed. With the pressing needs of the constant issues of his life, how could he care for the guide pressed open by an othello board.

Even after Ranboo finds himself sitting alone in his shack, he hardly gets around to think too hard about it, sue him. It fades to the back of his mind, part of the scenery, rather than something to interact with, even if he gives it a glance a couple of times. It never does occur to him that  _ he _ could continue. This, however, makes it so much more prominent when he finds himself looking at it with a furrowed brow. 

He’s never placed another piece, muchless the ‘opposing’ white piece. However, he doesn’t dwell too much on it, how could he? He’s known for absentmindedly picking up and moving things around, even if a small game tile was a bit odd for him (personally, he liked grass blocks). He decides to continue, after observing the board more.

The new piece was at the flank of his first, and the guide’s page was no longer at the intro. Reading things again never has been new to Ranboo, so he scans it briefly before adding a third piece. Even if he had intended to mull over the opposing side to play against himself, he’s quickly distracted by the storm calming and needed to feed the cows before it grew too harsh again.

Leaving a brief note at the corner of the pages of his book to continue the game another time, and perhaps invite one of his neighbors to play with him, he once more leaves the board unattended.

* * *

The first time is a coincidence, but the second time has him concerned. 

“I know memory loss is my thing, but wasn’t it getting better?” 

Of course, it falls upon ears that would not understand him, as Enderchest watched with bright eyes from the corner of his shed. Even if this was nothing notable enough to write in his book, beyond reminders to try it out later, he still instinctively flips through it. 

Even though he is still partially unsettled, he lets it off once more after finding a spare book and marking the spots in it. Surely, it’s just him being careless. He finds himself drowsing off after tucking the book into his jacket alongside his memory books. 

After a long day, no one can blame Ranboo for falling asleep leaning against the wall.

Enderchest, stares still. 

It doesn’t take long for the ever-open eyes to slide over to the board, and a simple smile before adding another piece to the board.

* * *

“You know, Ranboo, It’s really funny you’re learning to play Othello”

“Why?”   
  
“Y’know, you’re like a living oreo! And the whole sides thing-”   
  


* * *

Something was wrong. He knows that, but really that doesn’t mean he needs to give his gut reaction any credit, something is  _ always _ wrong. Enchanted game boards was the stuff out of fiction, and the chances he’d get anything other than store bought pieces was  _ absurd. _

His turn, 5 new tiles to the board. He’s now so weirdly cautious of it, the chances of him to mess with it without knowledge of it becomes slim. It’s not  _ stress _ , only concern. 

6 new tiles to the board.

It’s not like his shack had much privacy, anyways. Another weird occurrence, and if it wasn’t for the knowledge of his sleep state, he would think he was haunted.

Oh. His sleepwalking state.

Then, it sets in motion. He notes the game down in the previous book and shoved it into the mess of one of his chests and laid to rest. It’s not like he had many other plans. 

* * *

It’s possibly the world’s slowest game of Othello, he thinks, while listening to Philza talk about plans (that he promises he is listening to). A day for every two turns. If he remembers clearly enough, the 8x8 board held 64 pieces including the 4 starting pieces. Usually turns were timed. 

So deep within meaningless math, he hardly notices Philza asking him something.

“Ranboo?”   
  
“... It’ll take 30 days.”

With a skeptical look, the older man glanced at him and asked with some bemusement, “30 days is surprisingly generous just to get the kennel up.”   
  
Ranboo stares. 

Oh. Well, he lied. Not intentionally, of course. 

“I’m sorry…” he mumbles sheepishly before glancing up, “I zoned out…?” 

“I figured.”

* * *

46 pieces on the board. This is when he realizes, he’s  _ losing _ . He’s losing against himself. Which was nothing short of embarrassing. Though, he rationalizes with himself, it’s himself! He shouldn’t feel so bad. 

Then he scans the board. 

He’s going to lose so badly. It’s not even random luck, he can see where the pieces keep him trapped.

[Try to get corner pieces, since corner pieces can’t be flipped.]

He has no choice but to at this point. Heaving a sigh, he slumps before getting ready to make a note in a language he vaguely knows. 

[⍙⊑⊬ ⎅⍜ ⊬⍜⎍ (⟟?) ☍⋏⍜⍙ ⍜⏁⊑⟒⌰⌰⍜ ⏚⟒⏁⏁⟒⍀ ⏁⊑⏃⋏ ⋔⟒?]   
[Why do you (I?) know othello better than me]

He relaxes, with a note in his hand that he’s not even sure he wants to put on the game board, and sleeps.

* * *

[⏃ ⎎⍀⟟⟒⋏⎅ ⏁⏃⎍☌⊑⏁ ⎍⌇ :)]

[A friend helped us :)]

It’s a little sad, how unsettled he gets from the smiley face. That’s the first thing. He  _ loved _ to emote, with all sorts of smiling faces, but that one never felt right. This might be the reason. He leaves the board unnoticed, heaving a sigh. He knows that the server’s knowledge of ender was horrendous with Fundy’s atrocious word vomit, but the fear keeps him from letting these notes stay. 

He doesn’t burn them, but hides it in the back of his safest memory book. 

He tries to drown out the accusations that bubbled within. He’s so stressed, but he doesn’t want to deal with… well himself. How sad is that? 

He makes it back to his shed, and looks at the board. It’s for sure his loss, but sheer honesty keeps him to continue the game. 56 Pieces, and most of them are flipped on their white side. In a scattered attempt to calm himself, he counts. 36-20, and the way it’s going, He’ll end with just 3 pieces on the board. 

In some vague sense of humor, he laughs. At least. At least, it wasn’t a smiley face. He might’ve just tossed the board entirely. 

He forsakes trying to write in ender, and writes in scrawling letters.    
  
[Why are you friends with him? If you’re me, why is he your friend?]

* * *

The Othello game ends, and he’s right. He ends with just 3 pieces left. 

Whoever claimed this will help clear his mind is a filthy liar. He’s sitting by a filled board and enough questions to drown himself, which is saying a lot, since he’s so tall. Mind too cluttered to properly translate, he writes down notes as he reads it, to compose full sentences.

[He was kind to us, isn’t that enough?]

He crumbles the edges as he continues reading, eyes hurting from glaring at the paper.

[Who cares about sides? He helped me, and talked, so I don’t care.]

If his nails dug through the papers, he refuses to acknowledge it. He was too frustrated to cry, but the cold sweat burns his backside. 

[Everyone has skeletons in their closet. Who am I to judge?]

He ends up throwing the paper into the fire, to turn into flying embers, and wonders if it’s possible to call an exorcism on himself. 

* * *

“Philza, the kid isn’t home.”

  
“I know, I know, I’m just leaving a thank you gift for the trident. I saw him walk out earlier.”

Philza lugs over a chest to leave with a sign precariously balanced on it before noticing a fully filled Othello board. Laughing to himself, he finishes up quickly.

“What are you laughing about?”   
  
“He’s just surprisingly childish, nothing much.”

Closing the gate to the house, he leaves behind a white tiled othello board, with a carefully made smiling face in it.

Honestly, kids. 


End file.
